


Cotton and Cowhide

by sweeterthanstrawberries



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky barnes/reader - Freeform, Bucky x Reader, Bucky x You - Freeform, Bucky/Reader - Freeform, Bucky/You - Freeform, F/M, baseball AU, bucky barnes x you - Freeform, bucky barnes/you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:49:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25493392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweeterthanstrawberries/pseuds/sweeterthanstrawberries
Summary: You’re the coach’s daughter and Bucky is more than a little interested.
Relationships: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Kudos: 43





	Cotton and Cowhide

**Author's Note:**

> i was watching some old baseball games and came up with this idea. i really hope that you guys like it :) p.s. baseballs are made of cowhide and cotton thread if case you were wondering about the title….

“Great practice, boys! Great practice,” Coach calls as the players jog to the infield. “Now, tomorrow, my daughter will be tagging along, so watch yourselves,” he says, pointing his finger and narrowing his eyes in a playfully warning way.

Bucky and Sam share a look, both trying to keep themselves from rolling their eyes. Coach always talks about his daughter but has never brought her to practice. For all the players know, she is a 12 year old headache with braces.

“See you tomorrow,” Coach dismisses, signaling everyone to pack up their stuff and head home. Not giving the coach’s comment a second thought, Bucky leaves practice, expecting life to continue on as normal tomorrow and every day after.

***

Following your father onto the field, you take a deep breath. The red dirt. The freshly mown grass. Sunflower seeds and sweat. These familiar smells all flood your senses as you step onto the field of the Dodgers’ Stadium. In the outfield, you see rows of men catching and throwing bright white baseballs. No one sits in the stands. The spring sky is cloudless, and the Los Angeles sun beats down, drawing beads of sweat across your forehead.

You walk beside your dad to the outfield to meet his players. You would faithfully watch the games on TV, but you were rarely ever in town long enough to visit him at work before. That no longer being the case since you moved back to LA, you asked him if you could come to spring training with the team. He was more than happy to oblige.

“Alright, boys. After you are all warmed up, pitchers and catchers with John, infielders doing grounders with Jim, and outfielders with Charlie, working on communication,” your father says, “But first, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Y/N.”

Stepping up from behind him, you offer a small wave to the players, smiling. Bucky can’t quite believe what he is seeing. Beautiful and poised is far from the thick rimmed tween he had pictured. Throwing raised eyebrows at Steve, who has the same expression, Bucky looks back at your wide smile.

“Okay, warm up,” Coach finalizes before turning back to you and leading you away from the action and toward the other coaches leaning against the dugout fence.

“That’s Coach’s daughter?” Sam asks in disbelief, walking over to where Bucky and Steve are standing, too much in shock to go back to warming up.

“Was not expecting that,” Steve says with a slight smirk, glancing at his friends who both are peering at you shaking hands with the other coaches.

“Yeah,” Bucky mumbles, intently watching the way your hips swish as you walk.

***

“Y/N, play catch with your old man?” your dad asks, holding out two baseball mitts and a ball.

“Sure, Dad,” you reply, shrugging, “Why not?”

You jog out onto the field, find a place out of the way and across from your father, and get ready to catch the oncoming throw. Having played baseball on Little League and travel ball teams growing up, you easily recall the familiar feeling of the ball snapping into your glove and the windup of your arm before the release.

“Haven’t lost it, Joe,” your father says. He’s called you that nickname since you were a kid. His favorite player has always been Joe DiMaggio, and once you started swinging the bat, he said that you were going to be the next great hitter like him. The nickname stuck even after you had given up on playing.

Bucky can’t help but watch the way you easily throw the ball and catch the heat Coach is sending your way. Stealing glances between drills, Bucky finds himself smiling when he sees you laughing at whatever dumb joke the old men make from the dugout.

“Barnes!” the outfield coach calls, yanking Bucky’s attention away from you. “Get your head out of our butt and get going on the drill.”

***

Looking between your ticket and your seat, you are sure that there must be some kind of mistake. Your dad offered you a set of tickets to watch the team on opening day. Apparently, he had gotten you seats behind home plate, right up to the action. Natasha just smirks and sits down, cool as ever.

The hard green metal and popcorn ridden cement remind you of games spent watching your father pitch for the Dodgers when you were a kid. It’s been a lot of years since those days in the stands, so you are happy to be back.

“Who’s the one you were talking about on the way?” Natasha asks over the cheering fans that surround you.

“Left field,” you say, pointing.”Bucky Barnes.”

Squinting, she takes a good long look, but you realize that it is not towards left field, but rather to the pitcher on the mound.

“Who’s that?” she nods to the player.

“Steve Rogers,” you reply with a sly smile.

Natasha hums and raises an eyebrow at you. Shaking your head at your friend, you turn back to the game. Your eyes wander to Bucky almost like one magnet to another. You had noticed him at the practice you went to over a week ago. ‘He looks good in those pants,’ you think to yourself, watching the way he jogs to the dugout after the runner gets thrown out at first.

***

“Text me when you get home,” you call to your friend who salutes you before hopping in her car and driving away.

You walk back to the stadium offices to find your dad. Weaving through the hallways, you follow the stale smell of sweat, knowing that the coach’s offices are just past the locker rooms. When you turn the last corner, you discover that you are not the only one in the hall.

Bucky Barnes is walking from the showers to the adjacent locker room with only a towel wrapped around his waist. His back is to you, so you try and hide around the corner. Unfortunately, you kick a chair in your escape attempt, causing him to turn around.

His broad chest is sheen with water, his hair causing droplets to roll down his shoulders. Your mouth becomes dry at the sight, and you try to collect yourself.

“Hi, can you point me to my dad’s office?” you ask rather timidly, nearly losing your composure in front of the half naked player.

“Yeah, it’s the last one at the end of the hall,” he jabs a thumb over his shoulder, never breaking eye contact with you. An innocent smile turns his lips upward, even though he knows exactly how the situation is affecting you.

“Uh, thanks,” you say, ducking your head, briskly walking past Bucky and into the office he directed you to.

You knock on the open door.

“Hey, honey,” your father greets when he sees you.

“Congrats on the win,” you say, stepping into his office, pictures of old players hanging on his walls. A photograph of you in a San Francisco Giants jersey and an LA Dodgers cap sits on his desk. You could never pick a favorite team, and you loved the way it made your dad groan when you wore his rival team’s gear. You knew that he just loved that you cared.

“Want to get a bite?” he asks as he swipes the windbreaker off the back of his chair.

“I’d love to,” you say, following him out, pushing the thoughts of Bucky in a towel, fresh from the shower, out of your mind.

***

Sitting in the dugout, you enjoy the heat of early June radiating off the field. Cups of cold water sit beside you, ready to be drunk. You watch the players being coached by your father, hitting against a pitching machine deep into center field.

Bucky Barnes is quite the slugger you have learned while watching him sink hit after hit with ease. The power in his swing is astounding, and you find yourself staring with wide eyes and mouth slightly parted in surprise. He looks like he is barely breaking a sweat pounding balls into the stands.

In all honesty, the reason you came today was to get a glimpse of Bucky. You couldn’t stop thinking about him after your encounter in the hallway, so you couldn’t refuse your dad when he offered to bring you to practice again. You had asked your dad about Bucky while eating dinner after the game last week, and he’d told you he is a good player and a good guy, giving you a knowing smile when you brought it up.

“Alright, that’s it for today!” your father announces to the remaining players on the field that haven’t already left for the ritual post-practice weight training session.

You watch the players jog to the infield, then towards the dugout you aren’t sitting in. Bucky lets the bat hang in his hand before strolling over to the dugout with the rest of the team.

“Y/N, you want to hit a few?” your dad asks, poking in his head to see you.

At first, you want to say no, not keen on embarrassing yourself in front of these professional players, but figuring that it might be kind of fun to relive some childhood memories, you say, “What the heck? Sure.”

Grabbing the bat proffered in your father’s hand, you make your way to home plate. Bucky throws a look over his shoulder and sees you squared up in the batter’s box, taking a few practice swings.

“Barnes!” Coach calls, “Come over and feed the pitching machine, would ya? And turn down the speed to about 75.”

Immediately, Bucky jogs over, interested to see how you fare with a bat. Steve and Sam see what’s going on, so they jog to the outfield to shag the balls you send their way.

“Dad, it’s been years, so go easy on me,” Bucky hears you say to your dad who squats behind home plate with a glove.

“You got it, Joe,” he assures you.

“Ready?” Bucky asks, holding up the first ball.

You give a pronounced nod, before he feeds the machine, sending a fast ball your way. Without thinking, you swing the bat and feel the crack of a good hit. Years of practice come flooding back, and it becomes second nature to take that step, throw your hips, and follow through. The ball sails right past second base and into the glove of Steve Rodgers.

“Attagirl, Joe,” your dad says with a proud smile. “Haven’t lost it.”

Bucky, yet again, can’t quite believe what he is seeing. You made that look easy, and he is impressed by your talent. He holds up another ball, waits for your nod, and sends it into the strike zone. You don’t hesitate to swing, and the ball sinks into left field. Ducking under the ball, Sam Wilson catches it and tosses it back.

Relief and pride wash over you, happy that you aren’t making a fool of yourself. Your dad offers words of encouragement as well as advice, telling you to swing a little faster and drop your elbow a little sooner.

Another pitch, another hit. You stay out for nearly 15 minutes, swinging for the fences. Everyone watching is impressed by you, commenting on how good you look in the batter’s box. Bucky says the same, but his carries a double meaning.

***

“Good job, kid,” your dad says while walking you out to your car.

“Thanks, Dad for bringing me along. And for letting me hit,” you reply, pulling out your keys.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he winks before walking away.

You hear him talking to another voice briefly as you open the door. About to step into your car, someone calls, “Hey, Y/N!”

You look around and see Bucky Barnes jogging to you, this time in casual jeans and a t-shirt. You wonder how he can make something so simple look so good.

“Hey, what’s up?” you ask, fiddling with the keys in your fingers.

“You were really great today,” he smiles, the words echoing around the cement of the empty parking garage.

“Oh, thanks,” you say lamely.

“I was wondering if you are doing anything tonight,” Bucky asks, his weight shifting from one foot to another, seemingly nervous. A hand reaches to rub the back of his neck.

Without hesitation, you reply, “Not a darn thing.”


End file.
